One of the Lucky Ones
by Midnight Caller
Summary: Post-ep for “He Saw She Saw” (J/S)


One of the Lucky Ones   
by Midnight Caller   
  
  
  
  
Rating: PG-13   
Spoilers: He Saw She Saw   
Summary: Post-ep for "He Saw She Saw" – why do Jack and Sam seem to be "okay," even after a scene like that closing one?   
Notes:   
  
I should really create a macro to thank these people, since they're always so awesome and helpful. D, M, M, and A - rock on.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I would be lying if I said I wasn't hurt. Hurt? Is that really the right word? Injured, wounded, marred... yeah, I guess it's the right word. It just seems like such a short, simple word to describe something that isn't at all short or simple.  
  
  
Three months.   
  
  
Three months since I helped Jack cross a line that should have never been crossed. Only we did. It's done. It happened. And I seem to be the only one who wants to remember it without feeling pain and guilt.   
  
  
Three months. 12 weeks. 84 days. 2,016 hours. 120,960 seconds. That's how long it took him to tell me that I broke up his marriage. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hurt.  
  
  
I board the train, taking a seat instead of holding onto the pole like I normally do, just because I'm suddenly so incredibly drained. If there weren't so many people around I would cry, I know it, even though I'd hate to cry over something like this. Self pity is not a trait I want on my list. You don't get very far in life feeling sorry for yourself, even if it's three months after breaking up someone's marriage.  
  
  
  
He couldn't even come out and say it. "It was because of you, Samantha." No, he'd call me Sam. "It was because of you, Sam. It was because you came into my office that day, just to chat. We had that talk, where we laughed, and you looked at me that way you do, and by the end of the evening we both knew where we were sleeping that night. It was because of you."   
  
  
But he couldn't say it. And he was close to tears. Self-pity. Maybe Jack doesn't mind having that on his list.   
  
  
The train jerks to a halt and the doors ding open. More people file out, leaving me practically alone in the car that used to be covered in spit and chewing gum and graffiti, but is now just ugly, exposed metal covered in spit and gum and flecks of graffiti that were too hard to blast off. I guess some things just can't be erased.  
  
  
A man gets on at the next stop, and sits down several rows away, facing me. He's about my age, maybe a little older, and is wearing a black overcoat. His briefcase jitters around on the floor near his feet. Lawyer, maybe. Stockbroker. Business investor. Something that affords him that silk tie and polished shoes. And yet he takes the train. Perhaps his car is in the shop. Or he prefers to live in the city. For the excitement, the social advantages. The quick commute. Jack lives in Connecticut. Although now I'm not quite sure where he's been staying for the past 120,960 seconds of his life.   
  
  
The man runs a hand over his well-groomed hair, and looks up at me from his paper with the small print and pie charts. He gives me a smile. Straight, white teeth. Everything about him is so perfect, it seems. But I've known for quite some time that things are rarely as they appear to be.   
  
  
The wheels of the train scream around a corner with a piercing squeal, and then the train lurches forward jerkily as the driver slows the cars to what will be an eventual stop. 23rd street. That's me.   
  
  
As I get up from my seat, the lawyer/stockbroker/business investor rises from his as well, grabbing on to the bar above his head. He slowly moves toward me, and my female/agent instincts kick in, my muscles tightening, my brain alert. Then I relax; I guess my exit is the closest one to where he was sitting. When he's gotten within a few feet of me, he pauses and smiles again.   
  
  
The train finally stops, and the doors slide open. The lawyer/broker/buyer doesn't say a word to me, and for that I'm grateful. He'd either succeed in getting my number even after listening to a long, long rant about my job, or I'd find out that he's married and has two kids waiting for him to come home. He holds out his arm, signaling me to exit first. I smile weakly, and then make my way to the steep staircase to the street.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The door creaks open and I flick on my switch, the white bulb pulsating slightly as the current finds its way to the metal coils, heating them, producing enough energy for light.  
  
  
I can't even make it to the bedroom at this point, and settle for kicking off my heels and falling onto the sofa as gently as I can in my state.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
At first I think it's the neighbors. They're doing some home-improvements lately - lots of picture-hanging and cabinet installation – but it's not loud enough to be a hammer banging against plywood or plaster. Someone's knocking on my door.   
  
  
Slowly, I rise from the couch, one side of my face hot from its contact with the pillow, my arm half asleep from lying on it. I don't even know what time it is.   
  
  
I see a dark figure through the peephole; head down, shoulders slumped. I know it's him instantly. I unbolt the lock, unlatch the chain, and swing the door open.   
  
  
"Jack." I know my eyes are tired and reddened from earlier. Somehow it's a comfort when I see his are the same way.  
  
  
"Can I come in?" His voice is even rougher than normal. He can barely get the words out.   
  
  
Against my better judgement, I stand aside and let him enter. The door shuts with a quiet click.   
  
  
I turn around to face him, ready for a fight for some reason. Instead, the hurt in his eyes startles me. He's been driving around for hours thinking about today, thinking about the last 84 days and wondering if it was all worth it. I know it can't be easy being in love with two people. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hurt.   
  
  
I stay strong and try not to give in. I want to hold him, touch him, but I can't. Not now. Not ever.   
  
  
He sits on a nearby chair, flopping heavily against the cushions, his arms hanging off to the sides. I take a seat on the sofa again, several feet away, and lean my elbows onto my knees, resting my head onto my hands.   
  
  
"Jack, what are you–"  
  
  
"I should have told you earlier. I know."   
  
  
I don't mind the interruption. And his look convinces me that I may be able to touch him again, if only for a moment. But then he averts his eyes, looking at the floor.   
  
  
"I know you must think I blame you."   
  
  
"That's not..." My eyes say yes. "No, Jack."  
  
  
He listens to my eyes, and nods, leaning forward onto his hands, rubbing his fingers over his face. "I think it was denial, you know? The girls are growing so fast, and I wanted to be with them, I really thought Marie and I could get past..." His eyes find mine again. "I thought *I* could get past... it."  
  
  
I nod, and bite my bottom lip. Oh, no, don't cry. Please. My head slumps down, and I press my fingers into my brow, fighting the headache I feel coming. I guess he is only in love with one person. And it isn't me.   
  
  
  
  
"Driving around tonight... just, thinking... I realized..." He has my attention now. "I realized.... I haven't gotten past it."  
  
  
The headache suddenly vanishes, taking with it the self pity I hate so much. I can barely form the word. "What?"  
  
  
His eyes haven't moved from mine. Still reddened and swollen, they're somehow able to hold all the hurt and all the pain, but still show me what I need to see.   
  
  
He gets up from his seat and moves toward me, kneeling to my level. I still haven't taken my eyes from his, and can feel one of his hands wrap around mine, pulling it from my face where it's hiding the approaching tears.   
  
  
"I still haven't gotten past you." He says it so quietly I can barely hear him, but I feel his hot breath on my face and his hand rubbing mine. For the first time in several minutes, I close my eyes, not sure whether to cry, walk away, or ask him to cross the line all over again.   
  
  
Just then his cheek brushes against mine, and I feel the warmth of his lips on the skin right near my ear. The sudden flowing of blood through my veins both excites and unnerves me; I wish more than anything that what we were doing wasn't wrong.   
  
  
His mouth eventually makes its way around to my chin, and a few seconds later, he brushes his lips against mine. I wait to respond, wanting to make sure this is what he wants, because I already know how I feel. When he moans and applies more pressure, I give in, and kiss him back.   
  
  
In this moment, it's exhilarating to know I am one of the lucky ones – one of those people who has actually found someone who reciprocates my lust, my yearning; someone who wants me just as badly as I want them, in every sense of the word.   
  
  
But, somehow, I know it's coming; I know he will pull away. He has to. Because 2,016 hours ago, I broke up his marriage.   
  
  
I'm actually the one who breaks the kiss. As much as I want it to, it isn't about lust, or want, or desire. We're both just looking for some kind of twisted reassurance that someone in this world loves us. Even though it doesn't really matter when all is said and done.   
  
  
I rest my forehead against his, and the water starts forming in my eyes, spilling over into tiny, salty droplets. At this point, I don't care; I know he would join me if he had any tears left over after tonight.   
  
  
He starts to move away, and I stop him, pulling against his back. "Please don't go."   
  
  
His eyes are dark. Confused. Hurt. "Sam... I can't."  
  
  
"Don't leave." I lean forward, curling my arms around his neck, resting my head onto his shoulder. Eventually, he wraps his arms around me.   
  
  
I don't even know what time it is, or how long it's been since he walked through my door. And I don't care.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It's bright in my apartment when my eyes start to creep open. Blinking back the sleepiness, I stop myself from stretching when I feel the unmistakable warmth of another person next to me. Behind me, to be exact. My eyes fly open.   
  
  
When I relax my hands, I feel cloth, like soft cotton, and someone's slow, steady breath warming the top of my hair.   
  
  
Okay. I know I'm on the couch. I look down at myself. My fully-clothed self.   
  
  
An arm tightens around my torso, and a warm hand presses against me. Sighing, I instantly recall another time, not so long ago, when his hands touched me in a similar fashion. We were again both looking for that affirmation, only that was only a small part of it. I haven't really figured out why it happened, or at least why he did it, and I doubt he'll ever tell me the real reason.   
  
  
I'm not so sure I ever want to know. I just like how his hands feel.   
  
  
Slowly, I slide my fingers over his, feeling the roughness of his skin, the firmness of his knuckles, the extra skin around the joints of his fingers. When my hand glides over his wrist, I feel him stir behind me, and the entire length of his body presses against mine. I do my best to stifle the moan that wants to escape from my mouth.   
  
  
Three months; it's not that long. The urges, the yearning, it's all rushing back so fast that I have to strain to fight it off; I quicky tell myself that I don't want to be a part of reliving the mistake that brought us to this moment in the first place.   
  
  
I feel his breath against my ear as his head shifts closer. "Are you awake?" he whispers, his voice low and rough, just like it was then.   
  
  
Fight it. Push it down, away, out of memory.   
  
  
"Yeah..." I turn my head slightly so I can see him out of the corner of my eye. Perhaps that wasn't such a good idea, as our mouths are now so close in proximity that I'm not sure I will be able to help myself.   
  
  
"I..." His breath is hot on my lips, and I can feel them vibrating as he speaks. "I... should go..."  
  
  
I nod, and turn my head away, slightly, not wanting him to see just how badly I need him to stay. At any second, I expect him to let go, to get up, to walk out my door, and unwittingly erase the last 12 hours from existence.  
  
  
But when he simply nuzzles his cheek against mine, and makes no move to leave, I think that maybe things will be different after all.   
  
  
I grip his hand tighter, shutting my eyes as his warmth bleeds through my clothing to flush my skin. Why does this have to be wrong? It doesn't seem fair, somehow.   
  
  
And to think - I am one of the lucky ones.  
  
  
  
  
(fin.) 


End file.
